


(like a) heatwave

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Claustrophobia, Detroit Tigers, Gen, M/M, Not!Fic, PWP without Porn, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There isn’t that much difference between Arizona heat and Texas heat, Armando decides.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	(like a) heatwave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amantegufi711](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amantegufi711/gifts).



> A really long time ago (like in 2008 haha) [**amantegufi711**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/amantegufi711/profile) requested Armando Galarraga/Matt Joyce fic. I think he also wanted Galarraga performing magic tricks? Anyway, I just found this in my “crap I’ll never finish” folder. In 2014.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

There isn’t that much difference between Arizona heat and Texas heat, Armando decides. Yeah, Texas heat is a little heavier and muggier, clings to you and sucks all your energy out, and Arizona heat is dry and crackling, like playing baseball in a giant oven, but it’s all still the same in the end—you don’t notice the heat after a victory just like you don’t notice the cold of Detroit. 

Most of the guys hang around Chase Field after the victory over the Diamondbacks to catch the Trace Adkins concert, but Armando goes back to the hotel with a couple of the older Latin guys. Polanco has a cranky back (again) and Guillen’s hamstrings are aching (again), so Armando goes with them to keep them company. He’s never really been a country fan anyway. 

Armando loses track of Guillen and Polanco in the hotel lobby, figures they probably went in search of a bar where they could hone their flirting skills. He spots the most recent call-up, Matt Joyce, by the elevators though, and heads over to say hi. 

Joyce looks up when he sees Armando, gives him a slight nod. “Hey.” 

“You’re not at the concert?” Armando presses a button for their floor and steps back. 

“Nah. Not really much of a country fan,” Joyce says. “You either?” 

Armando shakes his head. “No. I listen to lots of Venezuelan singers.” The elevator doors open with a ding, and the two of them step in. “And Shakira,” he adds. 

Joyce laughs. “I definitely know who that is.” He wiggles his hips. “The one with the—you know, the hips. Right?” 

Armando shakes his head in embarrassment for Joyce, but a smile sneaks onto his face all the same. “Yeah, her. And don’t ever do that again.” 

“Aw, what? It wasn’t _that_ bad.” Joyce leans back against the metal railing and crosses his arms over his chest. The elevator climbs the floors steadily, chugging along. “So, what d’you think?” 

Armando looks over, almost surprised that Joyce is still speaking to him. They hadn’t hung out with the same groups when they were in Toledo together. Armando had kept mostly to the Latino guys when he was in Toledo, hung out with Aqui Lopez when he was down there, and Yorman Bazardo and Francis Beltran. Joyce hung out with the big, bruising homerun hitters, Mike Hessman and Jeff Larish. Their paths didn’t really intersect much, outside of Fifth Third Field. 

When he doesn’t reply, Joyce tries again. “Armando?” Joyce cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“Hmm. What?” Armando asks. 

“You zoned out on me there,” Joyce says. “Heat getting to you?” 

Armando shrugs and leans back, only stopping when his shoulder blades hit the wall. “Not that bad. Kinda nice, I think.” He closes his eyes. 

Joyce nods slowly. “I guess so. I’ve never been a—” 

The elevator creaks to a sudden halt and both of them are hurtled to their hands and knees. 

“What was that?” Armando pushes himself back to his feet and presses the button for their floor. 

Nothing. 

“I think the elevator’s stopped.” Joyce pulls at the **OUT OF ORDER** sign on the elevator’s emergency phone. “You have a cell phone on you?” 

“Yeah, don’t think it’ll work though.” Armando pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open. No reception. “It’s not working.” 

Joyce sighs and sits down on the floor with a dusty thump. “Fuckin’ hate elevators,” he grumbles. 

Armando can’t remember the right English word for that. “You’re afraid of tight spaces?” 

Joyce looks over at him and shrugs a little. “Yeah, guess you could say that.” He pulls his knees up to his chest. 

“You look a little—” Armando gestures to his own face. He can always count on hand gestures when English lapses occur. 

“Don’t.” Joyce shoots him a sharp warning look. 

“Sorry, was just thinking you look—” 

Joyce cuts him off. “I’m fine, ’Mando, really.” 

Armando eyes Joyce doubtfully. “Okay.” 

Joyce sighs and lets the back of his head knock against the wood-paneled wall a couple times. He untucks his legs from his chest and rests his hands on his thighs. “This sucks.” Joyce tugs at the thighs of his jeans for lack of anything else to do. 

Armando glances down at Joyce’s fingernails scritching on the denim. “Just have to wait until someone comes to rescue?” 

Joyce sighs. “How’ll they even know we’re down here? That concert probably won’t be over ’til late.” His voice has taken on a tinge of whininess. 

“It will be fine,” Armando says, scooting a little closer to put his hand on Joyce’s knee. “I promise.” He smiles at Joyce, tries his best to be reassuring. 

“We could die in here,” Joyce says. 

Armando sighs and settles in beside Joyce, back flat against the wall. “We won’t die in here.” 

“But we could.” 

“But we won’t. They will notice the elevator is broken and send someone.” 

Joyce pulls his legs back up to his chest again and locks his arms around them. “I got trapped in an elevator once, when I was a kid,” he says. “Stuck there for two whole hours, which—okay, yeah, it’s not a long period of time, but when you’re a kid it feels like forever. You know?” 

Armando muses; he thinks he does. “I do.” 

“So, yeah.” 

“Well.” Armando pauses and looks back at Joyce, trying to think of something to say. Armando tries to think of something to say without sounding dumb or inarticulate. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” He’s pretty sure he failed at not sounding dumb. 

“How d’you know?” 

“Well—” Armando pauses, choosing his next words carefully. 

“You don’t,” Joyce intrudes on his train of thought. “I was right, you _don’t_ know and we’re both gonna—” 

Armando grabs him by the arm and presses his mouth against Joyce’s. He isn’t even really thinking at this point, just wants him to be quiet. It works. Joyce startles under him, and Armando half expects to be shoved off, maybe even hit or kicked, but when the pain doesn’t come, he pulls back and opens his eyes. 

Joyce looks at him, face blank, eyes careful. “What was that?” 

“To—shut you up,” Armando says. He smiles. 

Joyce doesn’t smile back, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Close enough. “You kissed me.” 

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

“I said—” Armando stops himself, smiles again. “Because you’re pretty.” 

“Shut up. I am _not_.” Joyce scowls. His eyes are bright, though. Happy, Armando thinks. 

“Pretty pretty princess.” Armando ducks and Joyce’s fist connects with nothing but air. 

“Loser,” Joyce grumbles. 

Armando raises his head and grins back, pleased with himself. “You swing like a girl too.” 

“Oh, that’s it. I’ve _had_ it with you.” Joyce tackles Armando and they both hit the ground with a heavy thud. 

Armando loses all the air in his lungs and his vision wobbles for a little bit. He can’t tell if it’s Joyce’s arms around his chest that’s making it hard to breathe, or if it’s something else. 

“Ow, hey. Careful there.” Armando squirms under Joyce, trying to buck him off. “I need that arm.” 

“Forget your arm, my manhood’s been injured,” Joyce says, grabbing onto the railing and scrabbling to get leverage. 

Armando squirms some more underneath Joyce. “Not much to injure then.” 

Joyce glares down at Armando, one hand pressed on his chest. Armando studies his face carefully and tries to guess what Joyce is thinking from the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Joyce blinks a couple times. “Sorry.” He sits back. 

“For what?” Armando sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Your arm,” Joyce says, but Armando thinks he’s lying. 

“My arm is fine. I was teasing,” he says. “And,” Armando adds, “at least I got you to stop thinking about the tight spaces, no?” 

Joyce blinks rapidly. “The tight—oh, right. Yeah, I guess you did.” 

Armando raises his eyebrows at Joyce. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Joyce grunts, shoving away from Armando. 

He puts a hand on Joyce’s arm. “You sure? You look kind of—flushed.” 

“Jesus, I’m fine. It’s just the heat,” Joyce says, shaking Armando’s hand off. “And do you have to be this touchy?” 

Armando pulls his hand back and crosses his arms over his chest, feeling inexplicably stung. “Was just trying to help.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
